A Little Difference
by amanofnewwords
Summary: "I'm aware what tremendous feats human beings are capable of once they abandon dignity." - Hans Landa. I've been trying to keep my updates coming pretty fast, but as much as I hate to leave it on a cliffhanger, it might be a little while until I can update again! Stay tuned!
1. Chapter 1

**"Don't let them tell us stories. Don't let them say of the man sentenced to death, "_He is going to pay his debt to society_," but: "_They are going to cut off his head_." It looks like nothing. But it does make a little difference. ****And then there are people who prefer to look their fate in the eye." - Albert Camus**

**Nazi-occupied France, summer 1944**

My fingers dug deep into the dark soil, damp and cool beneath the hard sandy crust, feeling blindly along as I sifted through the earth for any remaining potatoes. I dug as far down and wide as I could, but my fingers found only dirt. I sighed, sitting back on my heels. Food was already starting to grow scarce, and we could not afford to miss a single one, not if we were to survive the winter. This was the last hill in the row, and although we had gotten quite a bit from the thin line of plants, it wasn't nearly as much as I had hoped for.

"Don't frown on a harvest, girl." Abelard murmured in his gruff voice, hoisting the shovel and two of the buckets of potatoes with a grunt. "Spoils the crops." He turned to go back to the cellar at the base of the stables, gently bumping my rear with the toe of his boot as he passed.

I grinned. Abelard was a great beast of a Frenchman, as tall and wide as a door, with wild black curls that hung down to his thick shoulders, now streaked with the faintest of grey. He had served as the groundskeeper here since he was little more than a teenager, years before I was even born, and had endured my grandmother's endless comments on his appearance with equanimity. For all her grumbling, Gramére had known Abelard to be a gem among workers, and had given him free rein over the estate. He had been fiercely loyal to her, right until the end.

My heart clenched in my chest and I looked away from the little garden towards the center of the grounds. The sun was just beginning to set, framing the modest stone chateau in golden light, nestled in a copse of dark trees. It was small by the standards of the time, but I loved it more than anything else in the world. Just across a little gravel drive sat the stables, once home to some of the finest horses in the country. Now, the wrought-iron box stalls stood empty but for the ancient grey elephant of a horse Abelard had managed to trade for Gramére's sleek black Mercedes. With gasoline as scarce as it was, that horse was worth its considerable weight in gold, and Abelard had taken to sleeping in the hayloft to protect it.

Although we were on good terms with our immediate neighbors, due to my tendency towards overgenerous bartering, the people of the nearby village had always greeted us with reserved silence, a reservation which had grown into open hatred. I had been walking through the village one afternoon two years ago, when a rock had struck the back of my head. I had woken up in an empty street with my face in the dirt and my hair matted with blood, my little basket and money gone. Gramére had been outraged, but did not pursue it. It had been cruel, but, although we had never said it, I think we both understood.

The Nazis had descended upon France like a hammer on a nail, and even after four years of occupation, they showed no signs of letting up. There were endless regulations, enforced curfews, resource requisitions, forced labor details, and worst of all, the persecution of the French Jews. I had taken pains to avoid association, and treated the Nazi commanders who arrived at the chateau, familiar with one or both of my brothers and expecting the famed von Jessen hospitality, with the same cold, contemptuous manner the villagers showed me. I could not change the fact, however, that I was a German, and therefore one of the hated oppressors. It left me in a precarious position, not one of the invaders, but not quite one of the invaded, either.

I slowly pushed myself to my feet and hefted the large bucket of potatoes, slowly making my way to the open cellar doors beside the stable. I handed the bucket to Abelard, standing just at the top of the stone steps, then turned and passed into the chateau's massive stone kitchen. Abelard and I had fallen into a comfortable routine in the year since my grandmother's death, me cooking what rudimentary supper I could manage from the limited ingredients, and my limited skill, while he finished with the chores. We would eat together, and Abelard would check the massive doors and windows in the chateau before retiring to the stables.

It was only once darkness fell, and the great stone house grew silent that everything closed around me. During the day, I was busy, tending the garden, sewing, and fighting the never-ending battle to keep the chateau from falling into complete disrepair. I was single-handedly doing a job that had taken an entire fleet of maids and footmen, but they had left before Gramére was cold in the ground. They were loyal to my French tempest of a grandmother, but they would rather die than serve her German granddaughter, even if we did share a name. Abelard was all that remained.

During the day, I did not think about those things, but they always returned in the darkness, my ever-present nighttime companions. I had slept in my old bedroom for one night after my grandmother's funeral, before fleeing to the sofa in the salon. The empty house stretched around me, the datk space filled with ghosts that watched me with cold eyes. _Alone again, pretty girl, _they whispered. _Always alone._

I never went up the stairs once night fell, instead taking up residence in one of the maid's rooms. It was small enough that the light from my little lantern filled every corner, just as I wanted it. I carefully removed my soiled clothes, wiping the dirt from my body with a cool washcloth before slipping into the dark, high-waisted trousers and loose sweater I had taken to sleeping in. My nightgown felt too vulnerable; in my endless, tense fear, it was all I could do not to wear shoes to bed, although I kept them right beside me on the floor.

I slipped beneath the blankets, facing the door as I always did. With one hand, I turned the knob of the lantern, slowly plunging the room into darkness. I pushed my other hand beneath the pillow until it wrapped around cold steel. The Luger pistol did not make for the most comfortable sleeping companion, but without it, I did not think I could sleep at all. But my body was exhausted, even if my mind was afraid, and I drifted into a tense and dreamless sleep.

When my eyes opened in the middle of the night, I knew there was a reason. I did not stop to question it, and instead sat upright in bed, pressing my feet into my padded slippers, the Luger clutched tightly in hand. Better to be safe than sorry. I silently slipped from the darkness of the maid's room and into the servant's hallway, my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

_It's just a rat._ I thought, over and over. _It was a rat last time; you're just being silly, like Gramére always said. _But the back of my mind knew and the hair on my neck prickled, my body braced for the impact of the rock against my skull.

I stayed close to the wall, the pistol raised, moving with absolute silence through the halls I knew so well. The main hall was filled with an empty stillness that hung heavy in the air, pressing in around me from the darkness at the top of the stairs. The massive oaken door was firmly shut, but my heart still pounded. The faintest of thuds echoed from the hall, and I whirled around, pistol outstretched, but the silence fell once more.

I could see the library door was hanging halfway open, the faint haze of blue moonlight from the massive bay window at the far end shining in a long strip across the marble floor. _Rats. _I began to move forward, slowly tip-toeing just outside that blue glow. _Rats, rats, rats, dear God, oh, God, rats, rats, it's just rats, it's just, oh, God..._

I all but leapt through the door, pressing my back against the library wall. The room was bathed in a gentle white light, the heavy curtains that covered the meters-high bay window flung back against the wall, curtains that hadn't been open when I went to sleep. My heart pounded, as I slowly scanned the room, Luger following my gaze, while my mind murmured, stupidly, _rats don't open curtains_. I looked over the plush sofas, spindly-legged tables and wall-to-wall shelves of books, eyes carefully assessing the dark room for anything out of place.

I stayed against the wall for a long moment, dragging in shallow breaths, then slowly moved along it, each forward movement of my foot a monumental effort. The grand piano at the far end of the room glinted in the faint light, the space beyond it a deep pit of shadows. I raised the gun once more, taking careful aim at the heart of the darkness, waiting for the faintest hint of movement as I circled slowly along the edge of the room towards the far corner.

_ Please, God, help me, please, oh God_, I was waiting for something to burst out of that hanging darkness as I slipped closer and closer in a wide circle towards it, knowing all the while that I would fire the moment it did, the shot nowhere near as loud as this oppressive silence. I was halfway down the room now, and raised my other hand, stretching both arms out to steady the shaking pistol, my finger barely touching the cold metal trigger.

I was so focused on the darkness that I didn't notice the small side table directly in front of me until my foot hit the wooden leg. I leapt backwards as the table clattered to the ground, the glass vase atop it shattering into a glittering mass as it crashed to the floor. I heard a low thump and turned just as the object collided with the back of my head. I fell forward, head rushing to meet the shimmering glass as it slipped into darkness.


	2. Trust

Someone was speaking, but the words were garbled and twisted, sloughing through my aching head like sewage through a pipe. My mind churned violently, refusing to process anything other than the fact that it hurt. The words continued, mangling around themselves before finally straightening out into something familiar.

"English?" I half-groaned, not intending to say the word aloud.

Something warm pressed against my arm, and my eyes flew open. I opened my mouth to scream and a hand covered it, blocking the flow of air. I couldn't breathe, _oh God_, I couldn't-

"Helene!" The ragged whisper brought me back, and my eyes flashed upward, the fear in them turned to shock. The face above me was one I had not thought to see again. His cheeks were not so full, covered with rough tanned skin and a day's growth of a beard, but I knew, without any doubt, that it was my brother. He saw the recognition in my eyes and smiled, lifting his hand from my mouth to gently brush my hair away from my forehead.

"Erich." I murmured, starting to sit upright, head swimming. It had been four years since I had seen him in Berlin, just after our father's death. Gramére had become my guardian, ending my formal education at sixteen and bringing me to France, and Erich, then twenty-three, had begun his officer training with the SS. Like our mother and elder brother, Bernhard, Erich had the classic short golden hair and blue eyes so prized in this new regime, whereas I, through some accident of genetics, had inherited my grandmother's curling brown hair and gray eyes.

Erich gently gripped my upper arms, steadying me as I moved to lean against the arm of the library's sofa. "Careful." He took my chin in one hand, tilting my head as he examined my face. "You were struck pretty hard."

My heart seized in my chest, and I grabbed his wrist. "Who-?"

"It's alright. One of my men was…overexcited." He huffed out a breath of a chuckle, flashing a grin at the center of the room. "I don't know who looked more afraid, you as you walked in the room, or him, when he realized he had just coldcocked my sister."

"Your men?" I glanced around the room with a frown. Two men stood at the edge of the lantern-light, faces half-covered in shadow. One was tall, the other rather short, each wearing scruffy pants, boots, and wool coats. Both had thick dark hair, dark eyes, and angular faces. The taller of the two was watching me with narrow eyes, his heavy black rifle held firmly before him, the butt nestled in his elbow. The other's wide eyes flicked back and forth between us, weapon slung over one shoulder and his hands in tight fists at his sides.

This, however, told me nothing. I frowned at my brother, taking in his similar dress and the long rifle that lay beside my legs on the sofa. "No uniforms?" I murmured. "And your friends, they are Jews, yes?" The last news I had of my brother had placed him with the Gestapo in the fatherland, so why was he here, and with them? My eyes widened, and I clutched his arm. "My God, Erich," I slipped easily from German into French so they might understand, turning to the two men. "You are with _la Resistance_?"

Everyone had heard the stories. Men, and women, circulating underground newspapers, selling information to the Allies, sabotaging munitions and destroying railways. In fact, it had been a Resistance operation on the nearby electrical substation that had cut off electricity from the house. I had thought to offer my aid, but the mistrust ran deep. I could understand why, given the all-too-frequent unwanted visits by the leaders of the local Nazi garrison. Even Abelard, on his frequent overnight visits to the village, was not completely trusted, although I knew he often brought supplies to his _maitresse_.

No understanding flashed in their eyes, and Erich shifted uneasily. "No, Helene. They aren't French." He seemed to teeter on the edge of indecision, then sighed, his deep blue eyes flashing up to mine. "They're American."

I blinked, glancing back at the men. "American?" It would explain how two young men so obviously Jewish were moving freely through the French countryside, but it did not explain how my brother had ended up with them.

"Hey, Rick?" I turned, and the taller of the two men stepped forward, dark eyes on me. "You mind speaking English?" His glance shifted to me. "If you can, miss."

The words were twisted in a bizarre American accent, simultaneously harsh and lilting, and my eyes narrowed. My head was hurting and I was confused, my patience wearing thin. "I speak better English than you." I clipped in perfect, irritated German.

"Helene." Erich murmured.

I shot a glare at him, then turned to the men with a smile. "My apologies." I said smoothly, shifting effortlessly to my accented English. I took a deep breath and rubbed my forehead with one hand, glaring at my older brother. "But you still haven't told me what is happening. You all are not French, and unless the Gestapo has radically changed since my time in Berlin, you are not with them, so what is this?"

"Well," Erich took a deep breath.

"We're the Bastards." The taller of the two stepped forward. My brother shifted to glare at him, and the man shrugged, half-grinning.

"You are joking." I glanced from my brother's grim face to the proud smirks of the two. "The Bastards are real? I thought that was just a story."

"What?" The shorter man blinked, his proud grin gone. "Really?"

"Of course." The two men looked offended and I rolled my eyes. "Please, a team of American ghost-Jews that slaughter Nazi soldiers? Cut off their scalps? I thought it was just fear-mongering." I pushed myself up until I was no longer slouched against the arm of the couch. "Aldo the Apache? The Bear Jew, really? It's something out of a fairy tale."

The shorter man hooted, laughing and shoving the taller's arm. "Hear that, Donny? We'll have to start calling you princess."

"Shut up, Kagan." The tall one grumbled.

"Helen, may I present Staff Sergeant Donny Donowitz," Erich pushed to his feet, grinning. "More commonly known as the Bear Jew."

I raised my eyebrows. "_You _are the Bear Jew?" He certainly looked the part. While the other man was small and slender, and would probably stand at least an inch shorter than me, Sergeant Donowitz was tall and broad-shouldered, muscles firm and thick beneath his coat. He straightened under my perusal and stood in the center of the room like he owned it, booted feet planted firmly, rifle comfortably held in his arms. With his heavy black brows and sharp dark eyes, it was easy to see why the Nazis were so frightened. Faced with this tower of a man, I might be too.

"Hmm." I murmured, then turned to the small one. "And you are?"

"PFC Andy Kagan, miss."He shuffled forward nervously, and snapped to attention with his eyebrows drawn. "I'm sorry about your head."

"It is alright." I smiled. "I was about to shoot you, after all."

"Boys, may I present my sister, Helene von Jessen." Erich grinned down at me, but I ignored it.

"Yes, this is all well and good, but it does not explain how you are here." I carefully turned on the couch to plant my feet on the floor, raising my eyebrows at my brother.

"Ah, well, that is actually quite simple." Erich settled himself on the other end of the sofa, crossing one leg over the other with easy grace. "One of the men under my command was recruited by the Bastards' commander, and when I was wounded and given leave, he recruited me." He raised his hands as if to say, 'crazy world, huh?'

"Wounded?" I frowned.

Erich waved a hand, brushing off my concern. "Nothing serious. Just enough to get me off active service. We need to-"

"Hush." Sergeant Donowitz stepped forward, eyes on the library doors, his weapon pointed towards the opening just beyond the lantern light. Private Kagan was at his side in a moment, rifle raised to his shoulder. Erich grabbed my arm as I pushed to my feet, tugging me behind him.

I pushed away from Erich, swiping at the hand outstretched to pull me back. "Wait, it could be-"

"Helene, no." Erich grabbed my arms, but I struggled, fighting his grip.

"Keep her back, Rick." Sergeant Donowitz murmured, eyes trained on the door. A moment later, the heavy wooden door exploded inward with a bang like a gunshot.


	3. Reunion

"No!" The moment I saw the figure, I ripped away from Erich's grasp, his startled fingers wrenching free of my skin, and threw myself on Sergeant Donowitz's arms, forcing his rifle downward.

"_Bâtards_!" Abelard leapt through the door, a hatchet in one hand and a pistol in the other. I saw Private Kagan take aim and rushed forward, bare feet skidding on the marble floor.

"Abelard, _non_!" I raised my arms, running up meet him. "It's alright, they are not dangerous!"

"Move aside, Helene." Abelard's eyes were wild, the hatchet still raised and ready to deliver a death-blow. "I will kill these dogs!" He roared, eyes wild.

"Helene!" Erich shouted behind me.

"She's blocking my shot." Private Kagan rumbled.

I planted myself directly in front of Abelard and roared back. "You will not!" I placed my hands in the center of his chest, shoving as hard as I could. He barely moved, but the contact, coupled with my uncharacteristic shout, was enough to shock him into looking down at me. "This is my brother, you jackass, and you will NOT kill him! Put the hatchet DOWN!"

The room went absolutely silent, and Abelard's narrow eyes shifted to each of the men before coming back to me. "_Ton frère_?" He mumbled.

"_Oui_." I stayed in my place before him, arms thrown out wide.

He considered this for a moment, eyes flicking again to the men behind me. "And the others?"

"They are fine, too." I nodded, eyes narrow.

His grip tightened on the hatchet and he glared down at me. "Then why are you bleeding?"

I blinked in surprised, raising one hand to my face. My fingers slicked along my cheek, and I glanced down to see them smeared with red. Naturally, once I noticed it, the cut began to sting. "It is nothing; I fell." I murmured, pulling my dark wool sleeve over my fingers and pressing it hard against my cheek to stop the bleeding.

Abelard straightened, slowly lowering the hatchet. "Then you are not in danger?"

I smiled. "No, I am just fine, but thank you." I wrapped my hand around Abelard's burly forearm and squeezed gently. "Come meet my brother."

I introduced Erich and the two Bastards, translating between the men. Abelard had picked up some German from spending so long with me and Gramére, but English was completely lost on him. Once he knew who our unexpected guests were, he was ecstatic, shaking their hands with the enthusiasm of a little boy. Abelard had always had a fighting streak, and I think it bothered him deep down that the Resistance would not have him, torn between his loyalty to my family and his hatred of the Nazis. He was as tickled as a kid on Christmas morning to have two of the infamous Bastards in our home, even if he couldn't understand a word they said.

"You know, when that door burst open, I half-expected to see Gramére with a rifle trained on us all." Erich grinned, settling back onto the sofa. "Where is the old tiger? Not even she could sleep through this."

I froze in place, my smile slowly fading. Abelard tensed at the mention of the name, the one word he knew, his dark eyes intent on my face. Erich caught the tension and frowned, looking back and forth between us. "What? What is it?"

"Gramére is dead." I murmured. I took my hand from my cheek and crossed my arms tightly over my chest. I had remained standing even as the others were settled in their chairs, and took a few steps towards the sleek grand piano. I cleaned it out of respect, but the keys themselves had remained covered since her funeral. "She died last year."

"Last year?" I could hear the shock and disbelief in Erich's voice. His voice grew dark. "Where are the rest of the servants?"

"Gone." I chuckled dryly. "With all that the Nazis are doing here, do you really think they would serve a German?"

"It's just you two?" Erich stood, taking a step towards me. "Helene, what are you still doing here? Don't you know how dangerous it is?"

"And where exactly am I to go?" I barked out a bitter laugh. "You have been God-knows-where, Erich. I haven't heard a word from you in four years."

"Bernhard and Marta are in Berlin-"

"Ah, yes. Saint Bernhard and Sister Marta, Nazi darlings." I snorted, running a finger along one of the bookshelves. "No, there is nothing for me in Berlin."

"There is nothing for you here." Erich murmured, the words little more than a breath.

He was right, of course. Gramére was gone, and although I adored Abelard and we had become friends over the years, we were nowhere near a family. My last reason for staying had been fighting in Africa for the last three years. I reached up and gently clutched the thin golden locket that was a permanent fixture around my neck. I had not heard any news of Johannes in over a year, but I had never stopped thinking of him.

I took a deep breath and shook off the grim thoughts, turning back to face the group. "Well, were you just sight-seeing, or did you come here for a reason?" I snapped.

Erich sighed, giving me a look that said quite clearly that this subject was in no way closed, and turned to look at the others. "Actually, we were hoping to find some supplies."

"Supplies?" I frowned. Abelard and I had two pistols, a hunting rifle and a handful of bullets between the two of us, and meager as they were, I was loathe to give them up.

"Food, mostly." Private Kagan pushed to his feet, slinging his rifle back over one shoulder.

I smiled. "Now there, I can help you." I turned to Abelard, relaying the request, and he leapt to his feet, delighted to be of service. He clutched Private Kagan's thin arm, tugging him out of the library and chattering away in rapid-fire French. Private Kagan looked back over his shoulder at us, eyes wide and nervous.

"Abelard with gather food for you from our stores. Do you need medicine?" I frowned. "We don't really have any antiseptics."

"We're alright on that." Sergeant Donowitz nodded.

Erich grinned at him. "Some wine, however, would be greatly appreciated."

I schooled my face into an anxious frown. "The first thing the Nazis requisitioned was our wine."

Erich was horrified. "Don't tell me those tasteless dogs took Gramére's wine. My God, there were bottles there older than this house!"

"Unfortunately," I continued as if he hadn't spoken. "They couldn't find it."

Sergeant Donowitz barked out a laugh and Erich stared down at me, incredulous. "You're joking."

"Not at all." I started towards the library doors, lifting the lantern as I passed. "The wine cellar is quite empty. The rest of the house, on the other hand…"

Erich laughed. "Helene, you angel." He grabbed his long rifle from the sofa and slung it easily over one shoulder, trailing after us into the main hall. "You two get the wine. I'm going to go and rescue poor little Kagan."

Erich set off towards the kitchens, whistling lightly. I turned to Sergeant Donowitz, standing just behind me in the yellow glow of the lantern and tilted my head. "Shall we?"


	4. Allies

The wine cellar lay at the bottom of a curving stone stairway, opening up from a hidden door off the main hall. I passed lightly into my room and grabbed my shoes, slipping into them as I walked. There was no way I was going into that cellar bare-footed. Sergeant Donowitz was standing in the middle of the entryway when I returned, rifle still in his hands before him, eyes on the massive paintings on the walls above. I pressed against the little wooden panel, gently dislodging the door before tugging it open. "It's quite dusty." I murmured apologetically, lifting the lantern high ahead of me as I started down the stairs.

Sergeant Donowitz trailed behind me, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. "I thought you said it wasn't down here."

"The wine is not in the _cellar_, no." I paused to brush away a cobweb before continuing on. "But wine, especially as old as what we have here, must be kept in a cool, damp place, so we could not bring it upstairs. There is a tunnel that connects this cellar to the root cellar by the stables. The man who built this place was very…fearful?" I frowned.

"Paranoid." Sergeant Donowitz drawled, grinning.

"Exactly." I smiled. "The tunnel was sealed off for many years, but Gramére had thought it would prove…useful, given the circumstances, so we opened it back up."

Sergeant Donowitz cleared his throat, the rough sound echoing in the narrow stairwell. "I'm sorry about your gram-meh." The words, which seemed a sincere expression of sympathy, were twisted by his accent. It was hard not to laugh at the sound.

"_Gra-mére_." I murmured, fighting back a smile. "Soften your vowels."

"Gra-_meh_." He drawled, and this time, I did laugh.

"Close enough." I glanced back over my shoulder at him, turning slightly in the narrow space. "Where do you come from?"

"Boston." He crooned, that awful accent drawing the short word into a rounded, almost musical sound. The American English was awful, almost an assault on the ear after the smooth, flowing French I was used to, but I was beginning to like it.

"Boston." I murmured, dropping off of the last stone step and onto the floor of the cellar. "Is that by New York City?"

The sergeant dropped down beside me, tilting his head to parrot my words back at me. "Close enough." He smirked, then turned to look over the cellar and gave a low whistle. "Damn."

The cellar was a long stone hall, comprised of three gently curving arches, one after another, that kept the weight of the chateau above from crashing down on us. There were rows of empty shelves, boards crisscrossing in diagonal lines to create deep diamond boxes, stretching along the side walls. Further off in the darkness, the shelves were replaced with thick wooden stands, designed specifically to hold heavy wooden casks.

"They used to make wine here." I moved forward down the central walkway, just wide enough for the two of us to walk alongside each other. "Not for some time, of course." I paced forward to the very end of the room, the back wall lined with empty shelves. The diamonds were smaller here, made to hold one bottle instead of the nine-bottle squares at the front. I set the lantern on one of the empty stands and moved forward, peering at the wall behind the shelves.

"Here." I slipped my fingers beneath the furthest section of shelving. I gently lifted upwards, and a meter-wide section of the shelf dislodged with a resounding thud, sticking slightly until it slipped from the simple pegs that kept it in place. It was huge and unwieldy, and I struggled to balance it.

Sergeant Donowitz moved up beside me, shoulder brushing against mine as he grabbed the wooden shelf. "Step back. I'll do it." I glanced up at him, his face cast in the shadow from the lantern behind us, and shrugged, moving backwards.

The sergeant hefted the shelf easily. His muscles bunched beneath his coat, and my eyebrows rose as he pulled the shelf from its place and leaned it against the others. A wall of thick wooden planks sat behind it, neatly embedded in the stone wall, and he carefully pried it loose. Behind it, the darkness stretched into the long tunnel. It was wide enough for a single person to pass comfortably, the space carved out of the dark earth. "_Voilà_."

Sergeant Donowitz stepped backwards, and I raised the lantern, the light glinting off of the dozens of dark glass bottles that lined one side of the tunnel. "Well," He chuckled. "Ain't that something."

"The shelves are so deep and close together that the light doesn't pass through. The Nazis walked by it more times than I can count." I ran a hand over the line of stone at the top of the doorjamb. "We managed to hide a Jewish family down here, on their way to Spain. They were tucked neatly away in the tunnel, while I poured tea for an SS Major upstairs."

"Just one?" He murmured.

I sighed. "My family is old nobility, the pinnacle of the Reich's 'Aryan ideal.' I have two brothers, one in the SS, the other in the Gestapo and the toast of Berlin, and more distant cousins and uncles in the Nazi Party than I can count." I glanced at him over one shoulder. "You're Jewish. Would you trust me?"

"Looks like I'm trusting you right now." The sergeant's dark eyes met mine for a long moment. I glanced away, and he stepped forward, lifting a bottle from the dark tunnel floor.

"Oh, no." I murmured. I stepped forward, brushing against him as I took the bottle and set it back in the earth. "Not that one." I slipped into the tunnel, raising the lantern and glancing around, carefully selecting bottles from the groups here and there, passing them back to him. "There." I murmured, passing back out of the tunnel and looking over the bottles gathered on the wooden stand. "That will do for now."

"Are you sure?" Sergeant Donowitz murmured, carefully replacing the wooden barrier. "We're growing boys."

"Well if you run out, you will just have to come back, won't you?" I muttered, taking a few of the bottles in hand, balancing them carefully with the lantern.

"Guess so." He murmured, moving to stand beside me. I glanced up. He was standing very close, his massive shoulder a breath away from mine and his dark, inscrutable eyes looking me up and down. My breath grew tight, and I felt my heart pump faster in my chest. Standing there in the orange glow of the lantern, he seemed very large, a strong presence so very different than the haunting empty space I knew so well. He was so there, so solid, and so uncompromisingly…_male_.

I immediately crushed that thought, coming back to myself with lightning speed. I turned towards the door at the far end of the cellar, stepping out into the walkway and blinking at him expectantly. "So have you ever been to New York?" I chirped politely.

The sergeant took a deep breath and wrapped his large hands around the remaining bottles, trotting after me. "Yeah." He cleared his throat as we moved back up the curving staircase. "I, uh, got some cousins that live there. We used to go visit in the summer."

"Is the Statue of Liberty as beautiful as they say?" I passed through into the main hall, setting everything on the floor to carefully shut the decorative panel behind us. "They have a smaller one in a garden in Paris, but I have never seen it."

"It's-" Sergeant Donowitz began, but footsteps thudded in from the kitchen hallway, and my brother appeared, grinning.

"What did you two get?" He dropped the heavy canvas sack he had slung across one shoulder on the ground before him and lifted one of the bottles. Erich grinned. "Excellent. You, my dear little sister, have phenomenal taste."

I sent a rueful look at the sergeant, silently saying _See? I told you so_. "If there is one thing you learn in France, it's how to choose good wine."

Abelard and Private Kagan followed after, each bearing another sack. They carefully added the bottles of wine to the bread, potatoes and other supplies, before sealing the bags tightly with twine. Erich turned to face me, and I knew it was time to say goodbye.

He took a deep breath and opened his arms. I stepped forward and he folded them around me, pulling me tightly into his warm body. I took a deep breath, my chest suspiciously tight. He and Bernhard were my only remaining family and although the seven years between us hadn't made for a close bond, he was all I had. "Be careful, Erich." I murmured, falling back into the German of our childhood.

"And you, Helene." He squeezed me tightly once more, then stepped back, hoisting the canvas sack higher on his shoulder. Abelard moved forward, shaking Erich's hand and clapping him on the shoulder, murmuring in quick French.

"He says to come back whenever you need to." I translated, nodding. "If it is safe to enter, the curtains in the kitchen window will be open. If they are closed, run." My eyes met Sergeant Donowitz's, and I cleared my throat. "There is a Nazi captain from the village that…tends to stay beyond his welcome."

The sergeant stepped forward, dark eyes bright. "We could fix that."

I chuckled lightly. "You all should go. The sun will be up soon."

"Thank you for your help." Private Kagan stepped forward, his hand outstretched.

I took it with a smile. "You are most welcome." I gave him a slanting look. "Try not to hit so hard next time." He smiled sheepishly, gave a quick salute to Abelard, then moved into the shadows of the kitchen.

Sergeant Donowitz stepped forward then, hand held out towards me. I started down at it, slowly reaching out to place my small, pale fingers in his large, tan palm. His warm hand enveloped mine and he squeezed it gently. "See you around, Helene." My eyes flashed up to his, and his lips curled ever so slightly in satisfaction. He squeezed my hand once more, then reached out for Abelard's.

Erich pulled me close once more, hooking one arm around my neck and tugging me in for a fierce hug. "I'll see you soon." He whispered, pressing a quick kiss against my temple. Erich hitched the canvas sack higher on his shoulder and turned to Abelard. "Watch out for her, alright?"

Although I knew he did not know the words, Abelard seemed to get the gist and stepped up beside me, gently curling one burly arm around my shoulders. "_Oui_." He murmured.

Erich gave me one last nod, then clapped his hand on the sergeant's broad shoulder. The two men turned, and slowly disappeared into the darkness.


	5. Chapter 2

**"Tell all the others you'll hold in your arms, that I said I'd come back for you. I'll leave my jacket to keep you warm, that's all that I can do." - Tom Waits,_ If I Have to Go_**

"I'm going into the village tonight."

I glanced up in surprise, hands stilling in the warm, soapy water. Abelard and I had just finished our little supper, and I was washing the dishes while he performed his habitual check of the chateau's doors and windows. He reappeared in the kitchen doorway, arms across his chest with his hands casually tucked into his armpits.

I nodded, hiding a smile. "Of course." Abelard had been with a woman in the village for years, although why he did not just marry her, I did not know. With the German restrictions and curfew, he had taken to staying overnight, walking back up the road in the morning with a whistle and a spring in his step. He worked so hard, and I could not begrudge him this.

"Keep the doors locked, and that pistol of yours close." Abelard squeezed my shoulder, then turned to tug on his wool coat. "Don't go outside for any reason, and if anything should happen-"

"Head for the tunnel, I know." I rinsed the last bowl and slanted a look at him, carefully rubbing the smooth ceramic with a dry cloth. "Go on, or you'll lose the sunlight."

Abelard gave me a nod, then turned and slipped out of the kitchen door. I laid down the bowl with a sigh, emptying the sink and wiping my hands on the dishrag. I quickly passed through the hallway and into my little room, slipping from my dirty clothing with lightning speed. Instead of my usual pseudo-pajamas, I slipped into a pair of grey riding breeches and a deep green sweater, pulling my brown riding boots over my stocking feet and lacing them tightly. I would take Abelard's place in the hayloft tonight, as I always did when he went to the village, and I knew from experience that it tended to be cold.

I grabbed my grey wool coat, bundling it along with our oldest lantern and my perpetually-loaded Luger, and slipped out through the kitchen door. The sun was halfway below the horizon when I carefully locked the door, moving out and into the stables.

Sacha stuck his great shaggy head over the stall door, nickering softly as I entered. "Hello, _ma chère_." I chirped, lighting the dusty lantern before closing the stable door behind me, sliding the massive wooden beam Abelard had scavenged up into the hooks that held it against the wall, effectively barring the door from the inside.

I walked over to Sacha's stall, clicking my tongue against the roof of my mouth. "Looks like it's just you and me tonight, pretty boy." I gently stroked his soft gray neck while Sacha snuffled around me, thick velvety lips gently nibbling at my hair. I glanced around into the next stall, checking to make sure that our long rifle was leaning just inside. Hopefully, I wouldn't need it, but it was always nice to be prepared. I patted Sacha's massive neck with a hollow thump, then grabbed my supplies and carefully went up the ladder into the hayloft above.

Abelard's thick wool blankets were spread across the floor, carefully laid out atop a thin pallet, just enough to keep the sleeper from lying on bare wood. Even with all this, the hayloft got incredibly cold in the still hours of the night. I set the lantern beside the pillow, turning the flame as low as it could go before reaching into the pockets of my grey coat. I had taken to keeping a spare pair of thick socks and a dark blue stocking cap inside it. I slid them on now, pulling the socks on atop my other pair before retying the tall laces on my old riding boots, pant legs tucked carefully inside. Sacha's perusal had left parts of my hair sticking up in clumps, and I smoothed them with a sigh before tugging the cap over my ears. I slid into the coat, turned off the lantern flame and stretched out beneath the blankets, Luger lying in its usual spot beside my pillow.

I knew from experience that I wasn't going to get much sleep. I had never been one to fall asleep easily in a strange place; there were too many creaks and groans, unfamiliar noises that never failed to startle me awake. I shifted on the thin pallet, turning to lay flat on my back and huffing out a breath. Sacha echoed the noise from down below me, and I grinned. I had to admit, it was nice to have another presence nearby, even if it was a horse.

I had left the curtains closed in the kitchen window, but I did not really expect the Bastards to return tonight. They had arrived last night, Private Kagan and two other men, strangers to me, melting out of the darkness like ghosts. They had been more subdued, two of them gathering supplies with Abelard while the third stood just outside the kitchen door like a sentry. There was a cold fear in the pit of my stomach that something had happened, and I stepped outside, settling lightly on the steps leading up to the kitchen door.

The man barely glanced over at me from his position in the shadows beside the stairs before turning his gaze back to the surrounding forest. I watched him carefully; strangely enough, the man looked German, his short-cut blonde hair blending neatly with his strong jaw and narrow, glaring eyes. All-in-all, he seemed a forbidding individual, but I was too worried to care about that now.

"Sir, my brother…" I whispered in tight German. The man gave no sign that he had understood, or even that he had heard me, and I changed back to English with an inward sigh. "Is he alright?"

He did not look at me, did not even acknowledge that I had spoken, and if it had been anyone else, I would have interpreted the silence as an indication of bad news. This one seemed the sort of man that would never do anything by another's leave, and would probably have let me stew in silence for an eternity if he hadn't felt like talking.

Just when I had stood to return inside and ask Private Kagan instead, the man spoke in gruff, exacting German. "Erich is fine. He is on patrol."

I blinked in surprise, then huffed out a breath of relief. I had the strange feeling that, had anything actually happened to Erich, this man would've told me with no hesitation. "_Danke_." I whispered, moving silently back up the stairs.

They had slipped back into the darkness as easily as they had come out of it, and I had gone back to sleep feeling a little bereft. This was foolish, of course. There were people starving, dying, being tortured and beaten, and here I was, concerned with my petty feelings. So what if I was lonely? At least I was alive. Unlike so many.

I heaved a sigh, shaking my head. These melancholy thoughts would get me nowhere. I needed to try and sleep; I had to be up with the dawn, clearing out the hayloft before Abelard came shuffling up the road. I knew he would be angry that I had slept in the barn and would stop going into the village, and I could not take his one pleasure from him. I grinned, thinking that at least he would start tomorrow morning on less sleep than I would, but probably in a much better mood.

Although I knew my ardent Catholic grandmother would strike me down for it, I thought it would be nice to have someone to cling to in the dark, when the night grew quiet and the ghosts arrived. I ran a hand over my wool-covered chest, slipping over the harsh edge of my ribcage and down into the pit of my stomach. I had grown so thin, fed on a steady diet of too-little food and too much fear. It would be so good to have someone big and strong and solid, to lie beside you and tell you that it would all be alright.

I hadn't heard those words in such a long, _long_ time. In these times, they rang so untrue that it was almost funny. Still, it would be nice to hear.

I turned over onto my side, ignoring the ache in my chest and closed my eyes, fiercely determined to fall asleep. Wishful thinking was pointless; there was no more would be, could be, or should be, there was simply what was. All that mattered was keeping my head down, and surviving. This war would be over, eventually.

This time, when my eyes flashed open in the middle of the night, I knew exactly what had awoken me, and it wasn't rats. Male voices, more than one, shouting in harsh, rasping French, and the sudden shattering of a glass window.


	6. Fire

I was up like a flash of lightning, throwing back the covers and grabbing my Luger in one smooth motion. I ignored the lantern and half-tumbled down the ladder in the darkness, reacting on bare instinct. It was then that I realized that the stable wasn't completely dark; there was the faintest, flickering glow of orange around the edges of the wooden-plank door, sending the cavernous room into high relief.

Sacha reared in his stall with a frantic whinny like a woman's scream. I smelled the smoke and suddenly understood. Fire. The chateau itself was stone, but everything inside, the walls, the furnishings, the goddamned _piano_, they were all made of _wood_. They were burning my home. And with the haze of smoke hanging in the stable air, I could tell the fire had already taken hold.

As if to confirm my fears, a wild voice laughed from outside, hooting. "Burn, you Nazi bitch! _Burn!_"

"Light the next one!" Another voice shouted, and I heard another crash of shattering glass.

Something slammed against the stable door, and it shuddered, heaving in its heavy wooden frame. Someone beat a fist against the door and shouted. "Bastien, help me!"

I froze. They began to pound the door from outside, rhythmically striking over and over. The heavy oaken beam bent with each slam, and I heard a sharp crack as the wood began to give. I knew I did not have much time.

Sacha roared in his stall, frantically moving forward and back as far as he could, slamming his massive body against the wooden walls to break free. The fire had not spread to the stone stable, but with the thatched wooden roof, I knew it was only a matter of time. I clicked the safety switch on the Luger, shoving it deep into the pocket of my coat and running over to Sacha's stall. The long rifle was loaded, and I slammed the bolt home, bullet slipping easily into the perfectly oiled chamber.

The beam cracked and split, breaking further with each thud. I did not know how many men were outside, but I knew I had to run. It was my only chance. If they got ahold of me, they would kill me, as surely as the fire would. I stood by the sliding door of Sacha's stall, left hand clenched around the rifle and the other wrapped around the latch of the stall door. The walls cracked and shuddered as Sacha began to kick, frantic to get away from the haze of smoke in the air, eyes rolling white in their sockets. I braced myself against the corner post, praying that the stall would hold together for a just a little longer.

The stable door shuddered once, twice, before exploding inwards with a crash. I flung open Sacha's stall door, and he burst from the little wooden space like a bullet from a chamber. I had heard stories of horses so afraid of fire that they would go mad, fighting to stay in their stalls, thinking that so long as they were home, they were safe, even if home was on fire. Sacha, the wise old beast, barreled straight for the open door, giant hooves pounding the earth. I ran right at his heels, the rifle held with both hands before me.

Two men stepped into the barn door, then leapt backwards with a shout as Sacha blew past them. I ran as hard as I could, reaching the door just as one of the men stepped forward. He gave a shout, reaching out to grab me. I did not let him get that far, swinging the butt of the rifle in a sharp upward slash. The wood connected with his jaw with a resounding crack, sending the man spinning backwards. I turned towards the other, bringing the rifle to my waist to steady the shot, and froze.

There, standing across from me with a knife in his hand, was one of my neighbors, Monsieur Bellard. He paused for the briefest of moments as our eyes met, then raised the knife, roaring. "_Collaboratrice_!"

I did not hesitate. I pulled the trigger, and Monsieur Ballard jerked, bullet catching him in the stomach as he tumbled to the ground.

I glanced upward, and for a moment, I could not breathe. The chateau had erupted in a tower of rolling black smoke, flames curling from the busted windows. The heat was almost too intense to stand, pouring from the stone in massive waves as the fire devoured my home. As I stood, mouth hanging open, the kitchen window exploded, debris flying through the air. Something sharp and burning hot slammed against my collarbone, searing my bare neck. I screamed as it fell to the ground, pressing a hand to my burning skin.

I heard a shout, and a man came sprinting around the side of the house, pistol raised in his hand. I gritted my teeth, snatched up my rifle and took off, dashing across the open yard. A shot ricocheted off a tree as I sprinted past it, too close to my head for comfort. I threw myself into the woods, stumbling and tripping over roots and rocks, gasping, fighting to pull air through my seared and aching throat. I ran further and further, tumbling headlong into the darkness as the flames disappeared behind me and the night grew cool.


	7. Aftermath

_Just do it_. I closed my eyes tightly, hand wrapped around my wet stocking cap. _Just do it, you coward_. I had run until the ground gave out beneath me, tumbling to the bottom of a low ravine and managing to do little more than crawl behind a thicket before passing out. I had awoken to find the sun high in the sky and the wound at my neck stinging insistently. I could not see it, tucked as it was along my left collarbone, but it ached anew with each movement of my head.

Before I could think any further, I pressed the cool, wet cap against my neck. The pain was immediate and intense, and I cried out, clenching my other hand in a fist. My vision went black, shimmering with blinding white stars, but I kept my hand tight against the burn until it faded from a searing pain to a vague throbbing. I waited until the cap was no longer cool against my fingers before slowly peeling it from the wound.

I dipped the cap into the stream once more, gently rinsing it in the cool, trickling water, careful to keep my left arm absolutely still. I had little to no experience with burns, and wasn't really sure what else I should do. Weren't you supposed to put butter on burns? If so, I was out of luck. There had been a full crock of freshly-churned butter sitting in the kitchen cupboard, but it was probably ash by now, and I couldn't really go back and check.

I took a deep, shuddering breath and squeezed the water from my cap with one hand. The air caught in my throat, and I gasped, dragging in air in hitching, sobbing breaths, eyes squeezed tight against the sudden rush of tears. This was foolish. I had to figure out what to do now; I couldn't just sit here weeping like a child. I reached up to wipe my eyes and cried out when the movement pulsed through my burn, soot rubbing from my skin into my burning eyes. I began to sob in earnest, falling forward and pressing my forehead into the dirt, ignoring the sudden ache in my seeping wound.

I had lost everything, and I had no idea what to do now. I had been clinging so tightly to the idea of home in spite of everything, staying stubbornly still as the world fell apart around me, just like a horse in a burning barn. I had some distant hope that, so long as I could keep the house taken care of, it could become a home again someday, once this stupid war was over and I was no longer alone. Johannes would return, and I would finally have a real family. Without it, I had nothing.

My wound burned like a hot iron, and I bolted upright, slamming the soaking wet cap against it. I screamed at the sudden burst of pain, long and loud and aching. My sore throat burned, but I kept screaming, pouring all of my pain and grief and _rage _out into the air, not caring who heard. It wouldn't matter at this point anyway.

I fell backwards, settling on my rump in the muddy soil, sobbing brokenly into my wet stocking cap. I cried until I had nothing left, and my sobs had dropped off into the occasional hitching breath. I breathed deeply and slowly until the hitches stopped, then wet my cap, gently wiping my face of soot and tears. I let down my hair with my right hand, careful to move my shoulder as little as possible, and rinsed the grit from my neck and hair, before tucking it up in the damp stocking cap. I felt a little better, still weary and confused, but at least I could think clearly.

I had two guns with a total of ten bullets, the clothes on my back, and few options. I could go to the Nazi garrison in the village. They would cable Bernhard, who would send me a ticket for the first train back to Berlin. It made sense, after all. If there had been nothing here for me before, there was certainly nothing now. Berlin was really my only option. There was no money or supplies to rebuild, and I doubted there would be much left standing anyway. I would say goodbye to France and my independence, and return to the lonely townhouse. The only difference now would be that instead of my indifferent father, I would be under the thumb of my fanatic of a brother and his wife.

I sighed, deciding to start by returning to the village. I had no way to know if the men would be waiting near the chateau to catch me, and besides, I did not think I could take seeing my grandmother's proud house reduced to rubble and ash. I knew by now that Abelard would have returned to the chateau and discovered the damage. No matter what, I would have to find some way to let him know I was alive. To do otherwise was too cruel. Besides, although I wasn't hungry yet, something I imagined to be a byproduct of eating smoke, I knew I would be soon, and at least the Nazi garrison would feed me. I had to laugh. It was probably the first time in history that anyone had gone to the Nazis for protection.

I got to my feet, hissing at the pain in my burn, and brushed off my damp breeches with my right hand. I would have to be careful. The attackers from last night had very obviously wanted me dead, and I would bet that desire was doubled now that I had seen some of their faces. Rage blossomed in my stomach. The wound I had given Monsieur Ballard, that traitorous bastard, had probably been fatal, and I was having a hard time wishing it wasn't. I had visited his farm just a few days ago, trading his wife too many of my apples for some of their milk, and he and his eldest son, Bastien, had greeted me with smiles and gratitude. Then, for them to set fire to my home, call me a Nazi and a collaborator? My hands clenched into tight fists, the movement twinging through my wound.

I knew that his son was the one who had broken down the door, the one I had struck with the rifle. I was sorely tempted to identify him to the Nazis and let them do what they did best, but that would be a touch too cruel. Yes, I wanted him dead, but I didn't want him to hang from a meat hook with his mother and young sisters beside him. If Sebastien Ballard was to be killed, I would do it with my own two hands. It would be my _personal_ farewell to France.

I cupped some of the cool spring water in my hands and slowly sipped, the water soothing down my ragged throat. It was an hour's walk to the village from the chateau, but I had gone far into the woods, and there was no way I could take the main road. Luckily, I knew the forests in the countryside fairly well. I would be able to skirt the farms along the way, but that, added with my aching, wounded body and the significantly rougher terrain, would probably make the journey much longer. I'd be lucky if I made it to the village by nightfall.

With that thought, I buttoned my coat, lifted the rifle in one hand, and started to climb the sloping ravine.


	8. Chance

The forest was tranquil and quiet, the only noises the tromp of my boots over the roughage and the trills of the birds in the trees. If circumstances were different, my hike would have been rather enjoyable. As it was, I was tired, sore, and hot, every bead of sweat that trickled over my seeping burn stinging like a wasp. On top of all this, my stomach was beginning to ache. I hadn't had anything to drink since the sip at the ravine, and my ravaged throat burned with every dry swallow.

"Hey!"

I was down the moment I heard the voice, slumped to a crouch behind the closest tree with my hunting rifle raised before me. I tried to silence my breathing as much as possible, slowly pulling the bolt all the way back before pushing it forward, bullet in tow. The voice had come from somewhere in the copse of trees ahead of me. I glanced around with a silent curse, seeing no better cover nearby and no way to retreat without making a good deal of noise.

"Donny, Omar, set up a perimeter and stand watch. Utivich, bring your pack over here."

I blinked in shock. The masculine voice spoke in a clipped, irritated English, twisted in a rhythm that was alternatively harsh and lyrical, and undoubtedly American. I did not know how many Donny's there were in the countryside of Northern France, but I would bet what little I now owned that there was only one.

As if to confirm my thoughts, a voice spoke. "Hey, Omar, try and watch your six this time, alright? I swear I spend more time covering your ass than your goddamned skivvies."

It was him alright. I would recognize that accent anywhere. I could not move without alerting them, and probably getting myself shot. I took a moment, pulling my shoulders in and trying to ensure my entire body was covered by the tree. Hopefully, I hadn't been forgettable. I took a deep breath, and called out. "Sergeant?"

There was a sudden crack, and I flinched, trying to make myself as small as possible as twin bullets pinged off trees on either side of me. It grew silent again, and I slowly raised my head. "Sergeant Donowitz?" I shouted, the words rasping in my ravaged throat. _Please don't shoot me, please don't shoot me_.

There was a long pause, then he called out. "Yeah?"

I closed my eyes tightly, swallowing hard. "It is Helene von Jessen? Erich's sister?" I winced at my own awkwardness, but there didn't seem to be a good thing to say at this moment. "You all were at my home last week, for supplies?" _ I helped you, remember? You can't shoot me._

There was silence, and I took a deep breath. It was now or never. I shifted onto one hip and reached around the tree, holding out my empty hand. Nothing happened, and I slowly stuck my head around the side of the trunk. I could see the vague outline of four bodies laid out on the ground ahead, rifles pointed straight at me.

"Hello." I called, trying for, and not quite managing, a smile. "Please don't shoot me."

"That her?" The first voice muttered.

"Yeah, that's her." The sergeant replied, with a sound like a sigh.

The first voice called out. "Alright now, come out from behind that tree real slow. Keep your hands up so we can see 'em."

I pushed to my feet, sore legs protesting the movement, and slowly stepped out into the open, the hunting rifle held as far away from me as possible, my hand wrapped tight around the forestock. I began to pace forward, glancing at each of them in turn. When I was about two meters away, the man in the center called out.

"That's good right there. Now lay down that rifle of yours, and any other weapons you've got."

I nodded, bending to lay the rifle on the driest spot of leaves I could. I pulled the Luger from my pocket and set it by my other foot, retuning to stand straight with my hands held at my shoulders, palms out. Trusting them was a gamble, considering that they were all essentially strangers, but I did not really have a choice. It was better that they find me than the villagers. Besides, I did not think I could stand to go another step without water.

Sergeant Donowitz's head rose from the ground at the far left, and I could see in his expression just how awful I looked. "What happened to you?"

"Fire." I croaked, my rough throat scraped from the shouting.

The soldier beside him leaned over, not-quite whispering. "I thought you said she was pretty."

This suddenly struck me as funny, and I started to chuckle, quickly growing into a full-on laugh that, with my torn throat, sounded like a sick dog barking. The men looked at me like I was crazy. I am certain I looked it, standing in my soot-stained coat with my hair in knots and my eyes rimmed in dark red.

The first man slowly rose to his knees, watching me like I had just walked out of a circus freak show, a bemused smile beneath his thick mustache. "Y'alright there, miss?"

"No." I said, still half-laughing. "No, I am not."

He pushed to his feet, rifle held before him. "Anybody chasin' you?"

"No, sir." I shook my head.

"Alright then." He sniffed, turning back towards the little clearing and calling over his shoulder. "Grab your guns and we'll have a chat."


	9. Wounds

They may have been called the Bastards, but in that moment, they were more like saints. I took Sergeant Donowitz's proffered canteen and drank from it in gasping, undignified gulps, not stopping to breathe until it was completely empty. Even then, it hadn't felt like enough, the water simultaneously stinging and soothing my poor throat.

Private Utivich passed me a thick loaf of bread and I fell on it like a hungry wolf, tearing off a new chunk before I had even swallowed the old one, perched lightly on a low, flat rock. Sergeant Donowitz and Private Ulmer paced lightly around the edges of the small clearing, staring out towards the surrounding woods, but I could feel the sergeant's eyes on my back, a sharp point of tension between my shoulder blades.

Lieutenant Aldo Raine had introduced himself and the other two Bastards, then settled back onto the heavy boulder in the center of the small clearing. The infamous Aldo the Apache was a tall man, muscular and slim, with thick black hair and a bushy mustache over his upper lip. He had told me to eat before speaking, and was currently watching me the way a cat would watch a grasshopper, not sure if I was real prey or just something to bat around. He was perched on the rock, stripped down to his thin-strapped white undershirt. There was a gaping red wound along the curve of his tanned bicep, thin but deep.

Private Utivich threaded a needle with bright white silk thread, and I watched him from beneath my eyelids, still eating but with far less urgency. He slowly pushed the needle through the lieutenant's skin, pulling it tightly shut before moving to the next stitch.

I spoke before I could stop myself. "No, don't pull it so tight."

The private turned to look at me over his shoulder, eyes wide in surprise, and the lieutenant leaned back, his free hand moving to rest on his thigh. "You stitch, creampuff?"

I blinked, then shrugged lightly, flushing and wishing I hadn't spoken. "I have done stitches, yes." I turned to the private. "The skin should not be so…squeezed."

Lieutenant Raine laid a hand over the private's, taking the needle and holding it out to me. "Alright then. Show us how it's done."

I took a deep breath and moved to kneel in Private Utivich's spot, taking the needle lightly between two fingers. The lieutenant watched me easily, not flinching when I removed the private's stitch and carefully redid it so the knot was just a little further from the edge. The wound had already been flushed and cleaned, little drops of water hanging on the edges. I slowly pushed the needle through the skin, pulling it just tight enough that the edges of the wound touched, but did not pucker.

I moved quickly and precisely, my old embroidery training and what little medical experience I had taking over. Abelard had fallen in the stable and cut his leg last winter, and I had learned to suture on the fly, carefully consulting a first aid manual while he swigged whiskey to dull the pain. I could only imagine how Lieutenant Raine was staying so still. I made one stitch over the wound and back under, then one stitch to the side, then one stitch over and back under, on and on until I had reached the end of the long, thin line. "The wound should be closed, but not mashed together, and the stitches have to be straight and even, otherwise you will have a nasty scar." I muttered, glancing over the thin black lines now embedded in his skin.

"Yeah." Lieutenant Raine ran a rueful hand over his jaw. "Looks like you're a bit torn up yourself." He gestured towards my neck.

I carefully tied a tight knot away from the edge of the wound itself, then leaned forward and nipped the remaining thread with my teeth, careful not to touch the lieutenant's skin. I settled back on my heels, tilting my head. My wound had thankfully stopped stinging, the endless burning fading into a strange numbness, and felt like it had swollen to nearly twice its size.

"Is it that bad?" I murmured. The lieutenant's eyebrows rose, and I shrugged one shoulder. "I cannot see it."

"Well," He drawled, accent stretching the word into a long, swinging sound. "That might be a good thing." He rose, carefully sliding back into his grey shirt and slowly doing up the buttons. "Now, how about you tell me what happened, while Utivich here cleans you up."

I nodded, moving back to my little perch. I had lain my wool coat on the ground beside my rock, leaning my long rifle against it. I slowly peeled the neck of my sweater down over my left shoulder, tugging the cream-colored strap of my bra along with it, blushing once more. Private Utivich knelt beside me, clearing his throat as he gently tilted my head to the side.

I told Lieutenant Raine everything that had happened the night before, from Abelard's leaving to my flight through the woods. While I spoke, Private Utivich gently wiped my blistering wound with cool water, prodding it lightly in places and looking apologetic each time I winced.

"So what makes you so sure this Abelard wasn't in on it?" The lieutenant leaned back on the rock, watching me with narrowed eyes.

I opened my mouth to speak, to immediately protest that Abelard would never betray me like that, but I could see in Lieutenant Raine's eyes exactly what sort of reaction I would get with that response. I stopped to think for a moment, and came up with a reason that might satisfy him. "If Abelard was to kill me," I said slowly. "He would not have done it like that. Burning the house would have been a pointless waste of resources, and that is not his….style." I shook my head at my own words, which felt like a small betrayal.

"Hmm." Lieutenant Raine nodded, turning to the private. "Utivich?"

"It's a pretty bad burn, and it looks like whatever struck you actually cut the skin in a few places, but it should heal just fine." Private Utivich nodded, carefully tying a linen pad over the wound and around my neck. He settled back on his heels and carefully wiped his hands, closing up the little first aid kit and placing it back in the small rucksack. It was the only bag I had seen any of them carrying, so they were obviously not staying here.

"So what's your plan, creampuff?" Lieutenant Raine pushed to his feet, hefting his rifle easily.

I swallowed hard, wondering if what I was about to say was going to get me killed. I did not know the Bastards' policy on Nazi associates, but I stared straight into his eyes nonetheless, not willing to flinch. "I was going to go to the SS garrison in the village. I have no other family here, save Erich, and no one who could take me in, but our brother Bernhard lives in Berlin. I thought I would go to stay with him." I straightened on my little rock. "I do not have many options."

"Well, how's about you come on with us? I reckon your brother'd like to see you. Boys." The lieutenant called, and Sergeant Donowitz and the private moved forward out of their sentry points, while Private Utivich slung the pack over his back. Lieutenant Raine held up my grey coat, and I slowly stepped into it, frowning as he tugged it up and over my shoulders. "We'll get you where you need to be."

I nodded, hefting my hunting rifle. "You have my thanks." I murmured, a little uneasily.

"Alright, then. Omar, you're on point." The private jogged forward, setting off into the woods. "Let's move." The lieutenant followed, Private Utivich right behind him.

"You're next." Sergeant Donowitz murmured, gesturing forward with his rifle. I took a deep breath, trying to shake off my sudden, sharp and irrational fear, then followed them into the woods.


	10. Ruins

It was not a terribly long walk to the Bastards' encampment, a little under half an hour through the deserted western woods. I had learned from Private Utivich, murmuring under his breath, that the lieutenant had made them stop as soon as he had noticed the cut, although just how someone would fail to notice something like that was beyond me. He had a deadly fear of infected wounds, and made the men treat any little cut or scrape almost on site.

"Ya'll laugh," Lieutenant Raine called out. "but you ain't never seen a man die of tetanus from a fuckin' paper cut." He glanced over his shoulder at us, white teeth flashing as he leapt off of a rocky outcrop to the ground below. "It's the little things that getcha."

Private Utivich followed, then turned to offer his hand to me, his look saying, _See? _I took his hand with a grin, dropping lightly onto the ground beside him.

Sergeant Donowitz jumped down behind us, boots thudding on the hard ground. He glared at Private Utivich, eyebrows drawn. "If youse two are done makin' eyes at each other, we gotta move."

I glanced over at him, surprised. His dark eyes stared into mine, and I flushed, turning to follow the private through the wooded path. At the head of the line, Private Ulmer raised a closed fist, and the men stopped, rifles raised. Sergeant Donowitz curled a hand around my arm, tugging me closer towards him, his body warm against my back. Private Ulmer put two fingers into his mouth and gave a whistle, one low sound followed by a second that swept to a quick high pitch.

There was a pause, and then another whistle sounded, this one two low notes with the sweeping sound following quickly behind. Private Ulmer rose to his feet and moved forward easily, the lieutenant close on his heels. I paused, suddenly uncertain of the wisdom of my decision and wondering if it was too late to slip away.

"Go on." Sergeant Donowitz leaned down to speak close to my ear, gently nudging my rear with the butt of his rifle. "Don't be shy." I shot a glare up at him, then slowly stepped forward between two saplings and into the open.

The Bastards had set up camp in a small clearing, under the shadow of an old Roman column, at least three meters tall and so large that it would take two people with arms outstretched to go all the way around it. There were a few other pieces of broken stone, covered with light dusting of moss and thrown here and there about the copse of trees. I'd been wandering these woods for years, and had no idea this had been here. It was strange that they had not been scavenged for the stone.

Men were milling about, all wearing the same mismatched dusty clothing I'd seen on the others. Three were sitting around a low campfire, one carefully stirring something in a large steel pot suspended above it. At the base of the stone column, my brother was crouched with his head in his hands, two men standing beside him. One of them glanced up at us and, seeing me, clutched at Erich's shoulder, shaking him hard.

Erich looked up, and the shock on his face was almost funny. "Helene." He slowly rose to his feet, and I broke into a run, tearing across the clearing and hurling myself into his arms. Erich clutched me against his chest, burying his head in my neck. I had been angry with Erich for so long, but it was so _nice_ to have someone to care. I could not resist that comfort, especially now.

"I'm alright, Erich." I murmured, but he only squeezed me tighter.

"My God, Helene." The word's tumbled from Erich's mouth quickly, running together in a panicked stream. "I thought you were gone. I thought I'd failed you."

"Failed me?" I tried to pull back, but Erich didn't let go.

"In the village, they all said you had burned." He half-choked.

This time I did push him away, getting just far enough so that I could see his face. "Wait, you've been to the village? Did you see Abelard?" I gripped Erich's forearms. "We have to let him know I am alive. He must be sick with guilt."

Erich paused, just long enough for me to become suspicious. My eyes narrowed, and I frowned. "What is it?"

"Helene-" Erich reached out his arms towards me, and I batted them away.

"What is it, Erich?" I growled.

He took a deep breath, then exhaled in a whoosh. "Abelard is dead."

My heart stopped in my chest, and I froze. The entire world seemed to stop in its tracks, and for a moment, I forgot to breathe. A high-pitched ringing began in my ears. Erich reached out to me again, but I put out a hand to stop him, that same comfort I had just craved suddenly impossible to take. I swallowed hard and found my voice. "How?"

"Helene-" Erich sounded so tired.

"How, Erich?" The words came out strangled and twisted.

"The SS investigators determined that he had started the fire to kill you. They brought him up before a firing squad this morning."


	11. Chapter 3

**"The rifle itself has no moral stature, since it has no will of its own. Naturally, it may be used by evil men for evil purposes, but there are more good men than evil, and while the latter cannot be persuaded to the path of righteousness by propaganda, they can certainly be corrected by good men with rifles." – Jeff Cooper**

Abelard was dead.

Abelard was _dead_…because of me. I could hear Erich speaking to me, and his arms stretched out once again to hold me, but I raised a hand. If he touched me, if_ anyone_ touched me, I felt I would implode. I drew in a shuddering breath, hovering on the edge of a scream. I wished I could not believe it, yet I could so very, _very_ easily. _Abelard...is..._

"How you feelin', creampuff?" Lieutenant Raine drawled, leaning casually against the stone column.

My eyes flashed over to meet his, and in that moment, I wanted to leap across the ground and bash his brains against the stone. How was I feeling? People I had trusted, had _helped_, had attempted to burn me alive and destroyed my home. The one man who had stayed with me, helping me unconditionally, and who had _kept me alive_, had died for it, murdered at the hands of the SS.

"_How am I feeling?_" I growled. If looks could kill, we would all have been gone. "Angry, Lieutenant. I'm feeling _angry_."

He smirked in satisfaction, seeming to take my venomous reaction in stride. "That's what I was hopin' you'd say." As I watched, Lieutenant Raine lightly took a pinch of snuff from his eagle-stamped wooden box, held it to his nose and quickly inhaled in a sharp one-two sniff. "I'm going to offer you a one-time-only invitation, creampuff." He grinned, white teeth flashing. "You wanna be a Bastard?"

"What?" Erich spat, echoed quickly by Sergeant Donowitz.

"Pretty girl like you? Looks French, speaks German?" He closed the box with a loud snap, looking towards the men. "Think what we could reel in with bait like that."

"I'd follow her." The shortest of the men chirped from behind me.

"Shut up, Hirschberg." Erich spat, stepping forward and glaring daggers at Lieutenant Raine. "You can't-"

"Why the fuck not? Hell ain't got no fury like a pissed-off woman." The lieutenant pushed off the column, moving to stand in front of me, voice low. "When that old boy ran up to you outside that barn, did you stop and think about what to do?" I shook my head slowly back and forth, and he snorted. "Course not. If you had, you wouldn't be here. You shot that fucker in his goddamned murderin' gut." His eyes flashed, and he grinned. "And you dragged a needle through my skin like it was fuckin' silk. Didn't even flinch. You've got what it takes, creampuff."

I glanced away, breath caught in my throat, and Erich stormed forward, shouting. My eyes fell on Lieutenant Raine's rifle, leaning harmlessly against the stone column. It was so small a thing, so simple and yet so powerful. There were two words carved into the dark wood of the buttstock, revealing the unfinished white wood beneath. _Inglourious Basterds_.

So what was I going to do? Slink back to Berlin? Back to the arms of the SS, the very people who had killed Abelard? I'd managed to live in the heart of Nazi-occupied France, straddling the line between invader and invaded, and had kept the chateau running for four long years. Was I just going to give up now?

What would Abelard say? What would he do, were it me that had died?

And Gramére? Had all she taught me been embroidery and etiquette? Or was there something else, beneath all that? I could see her, seated before the grand fireplace in the library, her eyes lightly closed, listening closely as I played the piano. She had been the first person who treated me like I'd mattered.

I'd been silent for so long, while the world went up in a flash of smoke and gunfire. I thought of Major Hellstrom, his cold eyes subtly threatening as he took tea in our parlor, and Captain Braun, who viewed me as his springboard into the upper echelon of German society, slinking around every chance he had since Gramére's death. I would be damned before I'd let them get away with this, but I could not get them from Berlin. I needed the Basterds. I'd do what I needed to do, kill whoever I had to, the innocent, the guilty, it would not matter. I had my targets, and I'd have my vengeance, no matter how long it took.

"I'll do it." I muttered. Erich grew silent, turning to stare incredulously at me, while the lieutenant only grinned.

"Helene, do not-" Erich stepped forward, pleading in soft German.

"I accept your offer, sir." I ignored Erich, stepping up to the lieutenant. I slowly stretched out my hand towards him. "Just tell me what to do."

Lieutenant Raine took my hand in his rough, callused palm, giving it a hearty shake. "Yes, ma'am."


	12. Obligation

Things had been admirably simple after my deal with Raine. Erich had shaken his head and thrown up his arms, but had otherwise left the matter alone. For the moment, at least. Kagan and a man named Zimmerman had melted out of the tree line, and with the group now assembled, we sat down to eat. Before the sun had even set below the horizon, they were preparing for bed, still fully dressed with their heavy automatic rifles beside them.

I had been able to maintain some semblance of a normal expression, my shocked body too tired to weep. My mind _knew _that Abelard was gone, but it did not seem to _understand_ it, not really. I knew it would eventually sink in, but for now, I just felt numb. Once the sun went down, however, my ever-present ghosts had returned, undaunted by the lightly-breathing bodies spread around me. It was foolish to think that they would be gone just because the chateau was. They had lost none of their power, and each and every one of them was Abelard.

I lay flat on my back, staring up at the starry sky for what felt like an eternity, unable to fall asleep. I pushed back the cover on my simple borrowed bedroll and silently rose to my feet, lightly passing around the other sleeping figures spaced around the clearing. The moon hung full and white in the sky above as I walked into the cover of the forest, taking several deep breaths.

A small orange ember flared to my right, and I jumped. Wicki, a man Erich had introduced as an Austrian immigrant to America, raised his hands from his casual perch before a thick tree, cigarette tucked between his lips. "I'm sorry I frightened you." He said in quiet German.

I shook my head, embarrassed. "It is not your fault, you're on watch. I'm the one disturbing you."

"Sit down." Wicki murmured, gesturing to the space beside him with the burning cigarette. I took a deep breath, stepping forward and settling onto the ground. Wicki remained standing beside me, reclining easily in the cool night air. I sat awkwardly for a few moments, my back straight and my fingers drumming a staccato beat along my thigh, before pulling my knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. Strangely, it helped just to have an alert, breathing being beside me, another open pair of eyes with his legs a hand span from my shoulder. As the silence stretched, it quickly became comfortable, and I rested my chin on my knees with a sigh.

"Do you know," Wicki spoke quietly out of one side of his mouth, lips tight around his cigarette. "My family was killed by the Nazis." He said conversationally, casually taking the cigarette in hand and tapping off the ash with one finger. "I managed to get to the United States, but they wouldn't leave Austria." He blew long stream of smoke into the night air. "And they died for it."

I felt the sudden, almost unstoppable urge to apologize, stupid as it was, but wisely kept my mouth shut instead. "Is that why you are here?" I murmured.

"_The villainy you teach me I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction_." He flashed me a bitter smile. "The world's most famous Jew."

"Or at least the Reich's." I muttered dryly. It was true. The Nazis had performed _The Merchant of Venice_ over the radio more times than I could count, using Shylock to exemplify their endless propaganda. It was enough to make you hate Shakespeare.

We sat in companionable silence for a long moment before Wicki spoke. "I know they say that revenge only hurts you in the end," The tip of his cigarette flared, and he exhaled in a low whoosh. "But killing Nazis…" Wicki smiled bitterly. "It might not feel so well later, but it helps very much now." He held the cigarette out towards me. "It may help you, too."

I grasped it lightly between two fingers and took a long drag, smoke filling my mouth and lungs, before passing it back. I closed my eyes around the sensation, tilting my head back against the tree trunk and ignoring Wicki's raised eyebrows. Johannes had introduced me to cigarettes, and the smooth taste of smoke against my tongue never failed to bring him to mind.

_ We had stopped in the grass in one of the low grazing fields as we usually did, him smoking his habitual cigarette with me stretched out on my back, arms crossed behind my head. The horses were a few meters away, grazing contentedly. Johannes' family owned the significantly larger estate that bumped up against ours, purchased solely to indulge his father's desire for "simple" country living, and we had ridden the land together nearly every day of the brief, bright summer when I had first come to live with Gramére. _

_ "Ask me what I'm thinking." He had said suddenly, breaking the easy silence._

_ It was an old game between us. Although Johannes was a good three years older than me, we were the only people in our social circle under the age of forty, and usually paired off at the incessant dinner parties. The game had begun when I had seen him looking particularly pained as we sat over dessert, and had leaned over to ask why. He had replied automatically, murmuring "I'm wondering if the shrapnel will hit us when Madame Marchant's dress finally explodes." I had taken one look at the portly Madame Marchant, who was squeezed into a particularly heinous beaded gown, attempting as always to dress a good twenty years younger than her age, and had promptly snorted my champagne. _

_I opened one eye and grinned, ready for the joke. "What are you thinking?"_

_His response was uncharacteristically serious. "I'm thinking we should get married."_

_I frowned, stomach sinking, but kept my tone light, closing my eyes again. "Ask me what I'm thinking." I felt him turn to me, and forced a smile. "That your mother will be ecstatic." _

_Johannes didn't respond. The silence stretched, and after a long moment, I opened my eyes. "You're serious, aren't you?"_

_"Helene," He turned to face me, leaning back on one arm. "I know you do not love me. We've only known each other a few months; you hardly know me, but," He gently cradled my hand in his palm. "I leave for Libya at the end of the week, and I would like to go with your promise." Johannes reached over and brushed a strand of my hair away from my face. "Just…wait for me, please. That's all I ask."_


	13. Watch

"Wicki?"

I came back to myself with a shake of my head, surprised to find myself drifting to sleep. A shadow moved out of the darkness, and Wicki murmured. "Right on time."

Sergeant Donowitz stepped forward, his rifle before him and his eyes flicking between the two of us. "You're relieved. Hit the sack."

Wicki dropped the burning remainder of his cigarette, grinding it into the dirt with the toe of his boot. He gave me a quick nod of farewell, then turned and started towards the clearing. I pushed myself to my feet, brushing off the back of my breeches with one hand.

"Not you." The sergeant strolled forward, his white teeth flashing in the moonlight. "You aren't dismissed. Sit back down."

"Excuse me?" I scoffed, eyes narrow.

"I outrank you, _soldier_, now you're one of us." He grinned. "Park it."

I shot a glare at him, but slid back to the ground with a whump, somewhat relieved. I was in no hurry to return to my empty bedroll, surrounded by uncaring, unconscious bodies. In the darkness, they were nearly as bad as the ghosts. Not that I would ever tell him. "Just couldn't wait to throw your weight around, could you, _Sergeant_?" I grumbled.

"Call me Donny." He leaned against the tree beside me, his leg firm and solid against my arm.

I scooted away, just far enough so that we were no longer touching. "No, thank you, _Sergeant_."

"Donny." He sing-songed, stepping over and pressing his leg against my arm once again.

I gave up, dropping my forehead onto my raised knees and speaking into my lap. "Donny is a terrible name."

He chuckled lightly. "I'll tell my mother you think so."

I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply, head suddenly heavy. I felt so warm, somehow more peaceful curled atop an exposed tree root than reclined on a wool pad. I took another deep breath and turned my head, resting my cheek on my raised knees and staring up at him out of the corner of my eye. "What did you do before all this?" I mumbled.

He stared straight out into the woods. "What did you do before this…?"

"_Donny_." I half-growled, eyes narrowed.

Donny grinned down at me. "I was a barber."

I snorted out a laugh. "A bah-beh, huh?" I drawled in a mockery of his awful accent, and he laughed, a warm, rich sound. I tucked my head back behind my knees with a smile…

…and opened my eyes, hours later. I was leaning against something warm and solid, my arms wrapped tightly around it and my legs were tucked together on the ground beside me. A large hand was on my shoulder, shaking me roughly, and I frowned, irritated.

"Hey," Donny let go of my shoulder and straightened. "You need to get back to bed. The next watch'll be up soon."

I inhaled, not really sure what had happened, and it hit me that I was curled up around his calf like it was my favorite pillow. I jerked backwards like he had burned me and scrambled to my feet. "Sorry." I turned to go back to the clearing, blushing furiously.

"Hey," His large, warm hand wrapped around my arm, and I turned, frowning.

Donny pulled me back to him with a forceful tug. I stumbled, tripping over my feet as he brought me up against his broad chest. I gasped in surprise as he pressed his lips against mine, one arm wrapping around my waist while the other rose to curl around the back of my neck. My eyes went wide as his mouth moved against mine, lips firm and soft. My hands were trapped between us, pressed against his hard chest, and I didn't think to push him away. I couldn't think _at all_, my mind reduced to an incoherent mass of sensations, each one as startling as the last. He took advantage of my surprise and deepened the kiss, his tongue slipping inside my open mouth to gently flick against mine.

I made a strangled noise low in my throat, and my hands rose to frame his hard jaw. He clutched me tighter as his tongue continued to pillage my mouth. I had been kissed before, by my grade-school boyfriend Karl and then by Johannes, but it was never like _this_. His arms were so strong around me, body so warm and hard pressed against mine. It was like we were sharing something greater than a simple kiss, passing it back and forth between us with every flick of our tongues. My body was humming, pulsing with _life _for the first time in so long.

Then, it was over, his arms moving to cup my elbows as he stepped backwards. My eyelids fluttered open, and I half-stumbled before getting my legs back under me. "Why-" I cleared my throat. "Why did you do that?"

"Because I wanted to." His eyes were cold on mine, twin pools of glinting darkness. "And I don't think you'll let me after today."

I blinked. "What does that mean?"

Donny let go of my arms, hefting his rifle from the ground and bringing it back to its habitual place across his torso. "Go back to sleep, Helene."

I stared at him for a long moment, then slowly took a few stumbling steps backwards before turning and fleeing back to camp, my heart racing from more than the quick walk. It was all I could do to remain silent as I slipped around the prone forms of the other men, dropping onto my bedroll and pulling the cover up over my burning face.

The kiss had been like a dream, seeming real while it was happening but too pure to exist in this ruin of a world. I still felt it now, humming and pulsing through my body as I tried to block it out. I closed my eyes and tightly as I could, curling into a little ball beneath the blanket. It was just a kiss, anyway. Just a stupid kiss.

It seemed that I had only been asleep for a moment when Erich was forcing me awake, the toe of his boot pressing into my back. I crawled out of the bedroll with a groan, then turned and rolled it up into a tight bundle. Erich went to the little fire at the edge of camp and returned with two bowls of steaming-hot porridge sloughed into little tin canisters.

I settled on my bedroll and crossed my legs before me, digging in. The porridge wasn't sweetened and tasted more like processed cardboard than breakfast, but the hot mush felt good sliding down my still-scratchy throat. Erich perched on the ground beside me, eyes on the others as they quietly ate, gathered their gear, and cleaned their weapons.

The sun was little more than a golden hint of light over the treetops, the remaining arch of sky still night. I took a deep breath, inhaling the crisp morning air, and sighed. Erich set his spoon into his bowl and watched me with tired eyes. "Are you certain you won't change your mind, Helene?" He murmured in low German.

I took another deep breath, and was opening my mouth to speak as Donny walked out of the trees at the edge of camp. His dark eyes immediately flashed to mine, and I felt his look to the tips of my toes. It was like his mouth was on mine again, his warm body wrapped tight around me, holding me in his grip like a fever in the night. I held his gaze, and murmured. "No, Erich. I won't change my mind."


	14. The First Step

"Alright, form up." Lieutenant Raine took his place at the base of the column, and the men gathered around him in the loosest military formation I'd ever seen, some sitting easily on the ground while the others stood behind. There were twelve of us in all: shy Kagan, seated on the ground beside me, with Sakowitz, who did not seem to speak at all, beside him. Utivich and Omar sat together ahead of us, patiently waiting for orders, both as relaxed and easy as if they were waiting on afternoon tea.

Wicki stood behind us, a fresh cigarette nestled between his lips, with tiny, cocky Hirschberg standing in his long shadow. Hugo Stiglitz, the famed Gestapo killer and the stone-faced man I'd met outside the chateau, was wearing his usual frown, a smiling Zimmerman beside him. Erich had his arms crossed over his chest, while Donny held his rifle lightly at the end of the row. I could feel both of their eyes on my back, one disapproving and the other…intense, and fought to ignore them.

"Alright, we're headin' back to the barn today. We can clean up there, and get us a good rest." The men broke out in grins, a few of them cheering, and I gave a half-smile. I had no idea what the barn was, but if they were happy, odds are I would be too. "But we got to have ourselves a little pit stop first." Lieutenant Raine grinned, teeth bared like a wolf's. "Kagan and Mikey found themselves a little Nazi nest yesterday, and we gonna flush 'em out."

"Oh-ho, yeah." Hirschberg hooted, and Utivich flashed a smirk at Omar.

"We'll take it in three teams. Donny, your boys'll take the left. Rick, you'll flank right. I'll lead my team up the middle. Sound good?" Lieutenant Raine barked, and I blinked, surprised that my brother had been put in charge of his own team, in spite of his foreign origins. In a way, it did make sense. Erich had been trained to hold a rank within the SS that was technically higher than Lieutenant Raine's, and from what little I'd heard of him in the past few years, he had proven an exemplary officer.

"Creampuff!" Lieutenant Raine hollered, bringing me back to the moment.

I sat up straighter, unable to help it. "Sir?"

"Rick here says you can shoot," He leaned back, hand on his thigh. "But you ain't no fuckin' soldier, and I ain't gonna risk my men pretendin' like you are." I blinked, then nodded. His words were harsh, but I understood. I knew none of their tactics or their maneuvers, and my mind immediately began to flip through the millions of ways in which I could blunder in and mess things up. I'd gotten enough people killed. I wasn't about to add to the list.

Lieutenant Raine locked on mine. "When we give the signal, you'll hang back with that fancy rifle a yours, and pick off anybody that slips past us." Hirschberg snorted, and Lieutenant Raine shot him a look before turning back to me. "When we give the bobwhite, you can come on up."

"Bob…white?" I glanced over at the others, frowning.

"Yeah, bobwhite." He pursed his lips, blowing out the same two-tone whistle I'd heard the men make the day before, the first a low _bob_ with the second swinging up in a quick _white_. "It's a fuckin' quail call." He said, as though it was obvious.

I'd never heard a quail make a noise like that, but nodded anyway, getting the point. "Yes, sir."

"Alright, then." Lieutenant Raine pushed to his feet. "We're headin' about two klicks from here, and we're movin' quiet the whole way." He surveyed us all with a grim smile. "Let's go."

We set off into the forest in a long column, Zimmerman scouting ahead while the rest of us trudged quietly behind. I held my long rifle nestled in the crook of my arm, imitating the way Erich was moving ahead of me. He took measured, deliberate steps, head turning to continually sweep the landscape on either side of us, alert to the slightest hint of danger.

I had to admit, I felt silly. There I was in my leather riding boots, fashionably tailored especially for me, tight breeches and wool pea coat. I looked like I was heading for a dressage competition, but for the half-healed cuts dotted about my face and the massive white bandage tied around my neck. The others seemed so fierce, whereas I felt more like a little boy playing soldier in his father's hat.

It felt like we had been walking for hours when suddenly, Lieutenant Raine raised his fist. The men dropped to one knee, weapons raised and at the ready, and I followed, eyes wide. He extended two fingers, pointing at his eyes, then pointing into the forest ahead, looking back at us. His arm raised, and he swung it in a circle over his head.

The men began to move forward, fanning out alongside Lieutenant Raine. Erich looked over his shoulder at me, eyebrows drawn in a fierce glare. He jabbed one finger at me, then at the ground, silently shouting at me to stay put. I nodded wildly, and Erich moved forward, joining the men on the right side. Lieutenant Raine looked to Donny on his left, then Erich on his right, and nodded, before silently moving into the woods. I realized then why they called him 'the Apache.' The man moved through the forest like he'd been born into it, sure feet padding easily along the leafy ground.

I watched until they disappeared beyond the tree line, then took a deep breath. My heart was pounding hard and fast in my chest, and the silence of the forest weighed down on me like a heavy blanket, so thick it was almost suffocating. I suddenly realized that I was sitting in the wide open, and quietly moved forward a couple meters, taking up a kneeling position behind a massive oak tree. I brought my rifle up before me, trying to take comfort from the familiar feel of it in my palms.

The rifle was a Mauser 1871 repeating model, the dark wood carved with long vines, stretching from the buttstock to the bolt, my grandfather's initials embedded at the end beside an image of a roaring lion. It had been a gift for him from my grandmother, its personalized nature the only reason the Nazis had let me keep it of the dozens of rifles in our house. Although the gun was designed to hold a stripper clip of only five rounds, it had been the first repeating rifle my grandfather had ever seen, and he had adored it.

I had four bullets left in that clip, and six in the Luger in my pocket. It suddenly seemed far too few, though I supposed if I really needed more than ten bullets, I was as good as dead anyway. I tried to slow my breathing. I had gone hunting more times than I could count, and although I had never much liked the killing or the skinning, I'd always enjoyed being in the woods, listening to the wind rustle through the trees and the birds calling lightly as they went about their days. I tried to view this as just another hunt, but it was impossible.

Deer had a tendency not to shoot back when you fired on them.

The silence stretched, a little bird twittering unconcernedly in the leaves above me. I took a deep breath, licking my dry lips and trying to calm down. I jumped at the first shot, finger almost lurching against my own trigger as the sound echoed through the forest. The little bird took off from the tree above as the air erupted in the rapid cracks and rat-a-tat-tats of gunfire, startled shouts and pained cries punctuating the mechanical noise. I stared down the barrel of my rifle at the empty trees ahead of me, breathing so hard it hurt, drawing in air in huge, gasping breaths.

Suddenly, everything went quiet. I stayed hunched against the tree bark, holding my breath and waiting, wondering what would come out of the woods ahead. There was a sudden gunshot, and my body jerked. I let out a shuddering breath, swallowing hard.

Far off in the distance, there came a low whistle, followed closely by a second, sweeping into a high pitch. I closed my eyes, exhaling in a whoosh of relief. Bobwhite.


	15. Chapter 4

**"I see myself capable of arrogance and brutality…that's a fierce thing, to discover within yourself that which you despise the most in others." – George Stevens**

I pushed unsteadily to my feet and started through the woods, moving carefully on shaking knees. Through the trees, I could hear the faintest sounds of movement and voices calling to each other, the distant words somehow more unsettling than the gunfire.

I slipped by another thick oak tree and froze. Stretched out before me was the still-trembling corpse of a Nazi soldier, lying face-down in his dusky Wehrmacht greens. Kagan, the same shy, awkward Kagan who had blushed when he shook my hand, was crouched over him, one hand fisted in the man's light brown hair while the other separated it from his skull with a long serrated knife. Bile rose in my throat, and I gagged, pressing a hand to my closed lips. Kagan's eyes flashed up to mine and he grinned, baring his teeth like wolf over his prey.

I blinked, trying to rid myself of the image, and moved quickly past him. The rumors of the Basterds had always seemed like ghost stories to me, sensationalized rumors people spread simply because they were more interesting than the truth. I had heard of what they did, but I hadn't believed it, not really. It was too…fantastic, too far-fetched, like Cronus eating his children. Something for a morality tale, perhaps, but not anything real. To see them enacted in person, to know that the myths were all true, was…a little hard to swallow.

Straight ahead, there sat a little wooden shack, a radio relay post, judging from the long wires and massive control board visible through the open door. Bodies were scattered around it, strewn like confetti and riddled with open wounds. The Basterds were scavenging the men like vultures, some carving off scalps, others digging through their pockets and pulling ammunition from their weapons. Three men had been left alive and were kneeling with their heads down a few meters away, Erich standing guard behind them. He would not meet my eyes.

Lieutenant Raine was seated on a bench that had been built against the outside of the cabin, watching me easily as he took a pinch of snuff from his little wooden box. "You're lookin' a little green there, darlin'." He called, taking the snuff with a sharp inhale.

My eyes flashed up to meet his, and I felt my temper flare. He was _amused_ at all this, which I supposed made sense. He had seen it dozens of times before, given on his orders, and the brutality of it all had become a part of his life. But for him to smirk at me, because I still saw violence as violence was…irritating. I schooled my face into the careful society mask Gramére had taught me over the past three years. She had been the Countess von Jessen before the old titles had been abolished, and had been determined that I would know how to conduct myself as such. The look was blank, smooth and vaguely contemptuous, and I had used it to great effect on the Nazis when they had come sniffing around for supplies that they could "requisition."

Lieutenant Raine just grinned. "Atta girl." He closed the box with a snap. "I might need you to translate here in a minute." He shoved the box deep into his pocket, watching me with cool eyes. "If I do, you say exactly what I say, exactly how I say it, you got it?"

"Yes, sir." I said smoothly, and Lieutenant Raine nodded, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, while I held my rifle low across my hips and relaxed, standing just off to the side. The Basterds began to gather around us, slowly filling around in ones and twos, each of them with bloody scalps slung through long hoops at their belts. There was a strange anticipation in the air, plain in the eager set of their faces as they formed a loose circle around us. I frowned; those that weren't gathered around us were still in sight, but I could not see Donny anywhere among them.

I'd opened my mouth to speak when my eye caught on one of the kneeling soldiers, whose had lifted his head and was watching me, lips parted. The two others had their uniforms covered in camouflage field jackets, but this one was in the usual green-grey tunic, speckled liberally with ribbons and medals. His face was shadowed under the brim of his leather-brimmed cap, sun glinting off the familiar silver-red filigree pinned at the crest, but I could make out the faintest hint of a black eye patch over one eye, making him appear almost comically sinister.

Something about him seemed vaguely familiar, but I could not determine how. An old school friend from Berlin perhaps? It was so hard to tell, anymore. A low, cowardly thought slunk through my mind. I knew he would soon be dead, and I prayed, every inch of me pouring out the hope that I did not know him, because I knew it would be bloody.

I forced my gaze away from the soldier's, watching as Kagan jogged up to join the group. Now, they were all there but Donny. Lieutenant Raine's gaze swept over the circle of men, and he leaned back on the bench. "Alright. Rick, let's have that Captain up first." He turned to me as my brother spoke quietly to the man in the tunic. "You ready, creampuff?"

I gave him a quick look from the corner of my eye. "Yes, sir."

The Captain rose, and the sunlight shifted to cast across one side of his face. The skin around the patch was twisted and puckered, the tip of a long scar peeking from beneath the black fabric on his cheek. He was tall and broad-shouldered, but moved forward slowly, favoring one leg in a pronounced limp that worsened as the ground grew rougher. He came to attention before Lieutenant Raine, and I watched him with a frown. I _knew without a doubt_ that I knew him, but I just could not tell from where.

The Captain snapped an American salute, which Lieutenant Raine sloppily returned, muttering. "You speak English, son?"

"Yes, sir." His voice was low, and smooth. It struck a chord in the back of my mind, and my eyes went wide.

_Ask me what I'm thinking_.

"Alright, then." Lieutenant Raine straightened, reaching into the lining of his coat. "What's your name?"

The man removed his hat, tucking it easily in the crook of one bent arm. "Captain Johannes von Berndt, sir."


End file.
